


Eyes Like Libraries

by SomeBratInAMask



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Punk Arthur and prep Francis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:43:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis has a thing for bad boys. Arthur is both winning and failing such expectations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Like Libraries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ameriphobia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ameriphobia/gifts).



> [headbangs]

            Francis adjusts his hair to the front, so that tight curls obediently cascade down his pressed salmon-colored shirt. His pearly buttons are fashionably undone at the top, cuffs folded at his elbows, and lips stretched wide over his teeth in a grin. He snaps the picture on his phone.

            “But, why’d you break up with Gil?” Michelle asks, leaning over his homeroom desk impatiently.

            Francis slides his phone in his jean pocket. He wrinkles his nose and _tch_ ’s. “He’s too _rude.”_ Francis and him went to the movies. A person sitting behind Gilbert tapped his shoulder and asked if he could move out of their line of vision. Gilbert snorted and suggested they bring a booster seat next time.

Michelle furrows her brows critically, appraising him. “Isn’t that what you liked about him?” she points out.

            _“No,_ of course not,” he quickly denies. He thinks about the Gilbert from two months ago, when they first began dating. He would make obnoxious jokes during class which Francis never laughed at, harass weird kids in the halls (Francis would stifle his laughter, of course), and tell stories of wild nights only a fake ID could afford him. Francis digs nervously in his backpack for a nail filer. “ _Maybe.”_ Francis sniffs delicately. “I might’ve confused his bad attitude with confidence, which is _very attractive,”_ he defends, retrieving his filer and working on his nails. “I swear, though, it was mostly his good bone structure.”

            Michelle makes a sarcastic _“mhm.”_

 

            Third period, the men’s choir teacher announces that students from Ms. Hedervary’s Advanced Guitar class will be sharing their room for the week, due to floor renovations caused by an “errant bowling ball.” Francis is going over their music sheet when Antonio pokes him, acting giggly, and jerks his chin toward one of the guitar students with a goofy smile.

            “Your type, right?” says Antonio. Francis looks up at the moptop blond in mesh jeans, cross-legged on the floor with a guitar in his lap. He’s wearing a Sex Pistols tank.

             Francis winds a ringlet around his finger pensively. “Possibly,” he allows.

            “Hey, Sex Pistols!” Antonio calls across the room.

            The moptop lifts his head and nods curtly in acknowledgement.

            “Oh, no,” Francis tuts disdainfully. “Tonio, his _eyebrows.”_

 

            Francis avoids wearing black pants for the week choir and guitar are merged. He learns that the moptop punk in mesh jeans’ name is Arthur, and that he does not use chairs. Francis resigns himself to the dirty linoleum and listens to the rough voices and discordant instrumentals blasting from the earbud Arthur shares with him. Arthur will pull up the lyrics on his phone to whatever song he’s practicing, and Francis will sing melodiously as Arthur picks at the strings and occasionally at Francis’ voice.

            “It’s too pop. It doesn’t fit the song,” he criticizes on the third day.

            Francis rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to _scream_ the lyrics?”

            Arthur sneers. _“No._ It’s just not a _One Direction_ song.” He said the band like it was a vulgarity.

            “I’m not singing like 1-D. I’m singing like myself.” Francis is about to add that he has more soul than One Direction when Arthur is already ranting.

            “Well, you’re not supposed to sound like yourself. You have to match the singer. Because that’s how the song was _intended.”_

            “You just don’t like my voice,” accuses Francis.

            Arthur’s eyes magnify, which is when Francis realizes that they’re a dull green, like a dusty peridot stone. “That’s not true,” he disagrees, words slow and cautious.

            “Then let me sing how I’d like,” demands Francis.

            Arthur refocuses on the music sheet. “Alright,” he mutters.

 

            Arthur plays his guitar during lunch, perched outside on the tables with his feet on the benches. His friends have their eyes obscured by bangs, jeans ratty and band bracelets piled on their arms like tire stands. They listen to him play, chattering like he’s background noise on the radio. Francis watches him from a distance, tray in hand, waiting for him to trip on the strings or miss a note. He does not.

           Francis’ group waves him to their table. He waves back amicably, smiling before cutting over to Arthur instead. He sets his lunch in his lap and threads his finger through Arthur’s belt loop. Arthur shifts his hips slightly, tilting toward Francis. Something warm and self-satisfied uncurls in Francis’ chest.

          Arthur quits the guitar shortly, packing it in its case. He stretches over the table to lay the case on the ground, black shirt skirting up his waist and revealing the dip of his slim hipbones, a peek of his red boxers. He straightens and smirks at Francis. “Couldn’t resist?” he guesses.

          Francis smirks, lids drooping coyly. “I’ve always had a thing for boys more into themselves than I am.”

          Arthur frowns.

 

             When Guitar and Choir separate rooms, Francis acquaints himself with Arthur’s.

             Francis had spent nights envisioning the discarded boxers that would drape across Arthur’s unkempt bedsheets, the torn jeans jamming the door and the punk rock albums open and cracked on dirty carpet. It helped to set the scene for when Francis imagined Arthur pushing him onto stained blankets and tugging his curls out of order.

            It is nothing short of a shock when neither the room, nor Francis’ hair, is a mess his first visit. Arthur had directed Francis to his room, while he lingered in the kitchen for “refreshments.” Francis had never dated anyone who made “refreshments.”

           Arthur’s bed is tidy, with sheets tucked and a clean comforter pulled over two pillows propped upon the wooden headboard. There are posters of bands where none of the members are smiling, but there is no dirty laundry to be seen. There is even a CD rack on a neat computer desk, which appears to be color coded with all the titles facing outward. The computer is a desktop.

           Francis sits on the clean blue bed set, observing the most responsible teenage boy habitat he’s been in. His room, though definitely more creative in its decor, is put to shame by Arthur’s organization. Francis is mulling over this when he catches a small, inverted pentagram carved into the headboard. He shifts closer and traces the points with his finger. Something stupid and happy bubbles up in him, and he giggles. He listens to Arthur’s footsteps, confirms they’re still busy in the kitchen, before springing off the bed to sift through the bookshelf beside the window.

          Mostly, there are Stephen King and New Age novels. He has two copies of each Harry Potter installment. One spine reads: _Witchcraft For the Modern Gay Teen._ Francis snorts.

         “Entertaining yourself?” Arthur interrupts from the doorway. He’s holding two mugs. He raises one of the glasses as he sets one down on the desk. “Tea,” he informs.

         “Tea,” repeats Francis. “You like tea?”

         Arthur takes a tentative sip, closing his eyes blissfully. “Mm, love it. Made you some, too. I forewent sugar, but there is some downstairs in case you’d prefer it with.”

 

         Arthur does not get around to messing Francis’ hair up until the fourth visit to his house. It’s been a month, which is the longest relationship Francis has maintained without at least a good amount interactions on second base. Arthur is an obscene flirt, but an incredible prude.

        In the end, Arthur never does push Francis onto his bed. Rather, Arthur is busy reading _The Lovely Bones_ as Francis woundedly pretends to study (his excuse of doing homework together badly backfired, with Arthur finishing early and refusing to “distract Francis from his academics”). Impatiently, Francis abandons his post at the computer desk and marches toward the bed, sliding a bookmark into the pages as he slips the novel from Arthur’s hands and rests it on the nightstand. He slinks onto Arthur’s lap, holding his face as he dips in for a kiss.

       Francis smiles when Arthur gazes at him. Francis has come to associate Arthur’s eyes less with dull peridot, and more with the muted atmosphere of library books, which Arthur has nestled in his bookcase here and there. There is something very old about Arthur, yet very comforting. His dusty green eyes can be read like the dusty pages of borrowed books.

       Francis skims his nose down Arthur’s. Romance has possessed him, a soft and slow type which Francis has been inspired by since his thing with Arthur. Arthur snakes his hand around Francis’ neck, deepens the kiss, and turns them over so Francis’ back is on the bed. Francis’ heart pangs in excitement, because _this might be it._ Eagerly, he grips Arthur’s arm, as if he could seal the deal that way.

      Arthur’s hand slips between his lower back and the bed, pressing them together. Francis grins against Arthur’s lips, nearly vibrating. The bed actually smells of fresh linen, and Francis has a new appreciation for cleanliness when he notices he’s not worrying about lying on dirty underwear, like he often has with past guys. There’s a unique sense of significance to this, too, which Francis is not accustomed to, though he is grateful for. This is a first for sensuality, which Francis somehow never considered sexy until now.

      But then suddenly Arthur breaks out of Francis’ hold and hops of the bed. “Sorry,” he mumbles, scurrying to the end of mattress. He pulls down the fitted sheet, which has been undone apparently, and tucks it in. “It’s been bugging me. Um, where were we?” he asks, scratching his head embarrassedly.

 

            It’s winter and Arthur’s parents are making dinner. Francis has his head forcibly in Arthur’s lap, with the rough denim scratching his cheek, as Arthur rests a pillow on his face. He claims he’ll be done with his current needlepoint project by tonight. He is “quite excited, you see, because each new project has a more elaborate plan. I do say that this one, however, surpasses past needlework drastically.”

            Francis sighs. “You know, you’re not very cool,” he says, muffled by the pillow.

            “Excuse me?”

            Francis lifts the pillow off of him, staring soberly into Arthur’s library eyes. “You can’t keep up this edgy and mysterious facade forever, Arthur,” he warns. “You’re lucky I’ve forgiven you for such duplicity.”

            Arthur sputters. “I’m not - _fabricating_ anything. Are you _trying_ to insult me?” he accuses. Francis can see the tongue piercing he got last week.

            “No, I am just pointing out that you’re a bit of false advertisement. I came here for an edgy punk rock boyfriend. I got an old man crocheting by a roaring fire.”

            “It’s _embroidery.”_

Francis hummed. “Not helping yourself, my dear.”

            Arthur scoffs. “You’re a hypocrite, then. I came here for a hot piece of ass and got a shallow queen.” He smirks victoriously as Francis’ jaw drops in offense.

            _“I_ was just teasing. But, no, _you_ had to take it farther - ”

            “Boys!” Ms. Kirkland called. “Ready for dinner?”

            Francis titled his head toward the kitchen, then sat up and smiled smugly. “Well, we all have our flaws: you’re a nerd, and I’m wittingly gorgeous,” he delivered, sauntering toward the dining room.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
